


Decadence

by HQ_Wingster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Feels, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extended Metaphors, Getting to Know Each Other, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter is a Sweetheart, Heart-to-Heart, Holding Hands, Hugs, Inspired by Poetry, Introspection, M/M, Moving On, POV Theodore Nott, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prose Poem, Relationship Study, Self-Acceptance, Triggers, Understanding, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 01:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30131595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HQ_Wingster/pseuds/HQ_Wingster
Summary: Flick, flick, flick— it’s the twisting and the turning of a lighter beneath his thumb, with flecks of blue and amber coming to meet him as he was, while Theo stood there and stared here as he lounged where you couldn’t find him. Because he was curled with a blanket, charmed to fit him —Illusiont, stealing minutes from a gala that could go on without him. And if no one came to find him, he’d marvel at his own luck; but come the patterings from behind him, he knew better to think not as accompanying the butterbeers were Harry Potter and his knots.Where while loose, off-kiltered and itching to come undone, Theo could spare him a glance before he wound him around his thumb.
Relationships: Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Decadence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Feu_Eau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feu_Eau/gifts).



> Considering this is for a pairing that I have no experience writing for and that this is from a POV that I’ve never written before, this oneshot wasn’t that difficult and to some extent, it was easy for me. I’m not sure if that’s because I really resonated with the story, or if it’s because Theo is really similar to some characters I’ve written for in the past, or if this is my experience as a writer and I’ve found what makes this easier for myself. I don’t know, but what I do know is that the following story took me two days to write -- where the 1.6k bulk of it was done entirely within one day.
> 
> **General Thoughts** → I’ve noticed this recurring trend that whenever I write my first fic for a pairing, it’s usually a long and very introspective kind of story. This one is no exception as I dive into Theo’s thoughts, exploring his emotional landscape after the first year of the Battle of Hogwarts. And while it’s been five years since I’ve last read the Great Gatsby to any extent, I fell I was channeling that writing style while I was capturing Theo’s voice and how I really played with the language. And so if you’re familiar with my writing style, this is that but turned to ten.

> **Decadence** (noun):  _ one of the descendants of decay, borne from the marriage of both English and her husband, Français; where the ancestral ‘de-’ of its name came from Latin, “apart or down,” while the ‘-cad’ and yarn around it were meant to signal another’s fall — whether from grace or morality or to the cousins of them both, it didn’t matter since the horseman seemed to carry them all. For came the cracking of its whip, it met the rich and beautiful first... _

…and for a time, he believed that he would never see it coming — because for a man with as many not’s as there were Notts within his veins, he’d plead  _ ‘exception’  _ over  _ ‘rule’  _ and would point at the life he had gotten to live. Where there were no house elves nor pageantries; but rather, diligence and simplicity; where there were no bowings or propriety when he rejected both for equality; and where there were no marks of disapproval or that of senile authority for Theodore was his own man and this was his life, not his father’s. And that truth would always rattle him when he was lost to his own thoughts: it didn’t matter if he already knew it, just as he knew he wasn’t guilty. But feeling it come about him as it steadied him from where he was, Theodore wouldn’t trade this for anything under the sun. Or rather, the moon as he tucked here — disillusioned from everyone else.

And it struck him funny yet ironic that the adjective ran the gauntlet, arriving as a cloak of disappointment under the guise of being hidden. And maybe that was the origins of that charm when he spelled it over and curled in, wearing it more like a blanket as he gazed out to the horizon. Where Muggle London never looked quite as beautiful as it did now, brightly glowing like an island or like a fantasy for those at sea, lost to their madness and finding reasons to keep living; as it shimmered in the background of both his lighter and his sleeves. When he draped near a balcony and flicked a habit for only he for just the sound of its hinges could lull him into peace. As he stood there and he lounged here — like a spectre upon the eve, drifting idly between the living and those beyond them in memory. Or if he were honest in his assessment, he needed space from everybody.

From the music, from the gala, from the dancing and pleasantries; from the drinks coming to haunt him and the houre d'oeuvres from purgatory — where like the pomegranates of Hades when they were served upon a platter, a single nimble could cast him out from that of Heaven and into Hell. And just the thought of that had him twitching and it fidgetted his being. So he bowed out and dipped back so he wouldn’t run into who he used to be, so he could forget all the war crimes and the blood of his own family. And how they sought-after him like a nightmare when he had flung himself from that tree, cutting each and every tie that rooted him to that insanity. To that worship, to that travesty, to that comedy he couldn’t laugh at; and these  _ things  _ he had been running from, they’ve been trying to correct him ever since.

As if Voldemort and his followers, as if either of them still existed — as if he’d wake up at any moment and realize he had been dreaming. And that he was still just a boy and that of only seventeen, thrust with a mission he couldn’t throw for it was his birthright and he couldn’t concede. Where with a wand made of thorns as it grappled around his wrist, he was meant to slit all the naysayers and all those lesser than that of good; where with a kiss made of poison for it was betrayal from his lips, this was to mark his becoming as truly his father’s son, as a man and as a devoted who would do anything for the greater good.

But instead, he turned to flick that at his own kin from where he stood. A soft peck towards his father before he gutted him to the bone, before he slitted all the grease and the hellfire in his throat, renouncing the House of Nott before assisting the Chosen One. Firing curse after jinx after charm and all he could think, thundering like a stallion bearing a horseman and a carriage. Where shackled within the confines were those who had fallen to their decadence. Because Theodore was no puppet nor a soldier to another’s whims, especially if it entailed the defilement of his own will. And this was his and only his, as he stamped out those memories.

The ghost of his father and who he could’ve been, they were just that — both were long dead. They couldn’t hurt him or bother him or bend him to their will; not anymore, but he could  _ hear  _ them as they wandered and were near him. Searching for where he was and like a child, he hid from them. Knowing that the fleece of this disillusionment and the chill wrapped around him could steady him, like the flicking of the lighter beneath his thumb. The come and going of its fire matched his breaths at the moment, and that was everything Theodore needed. While at the same time, it wasn’t enough.

But he didn’t have much experience with voicing what he wanted and to try that at the moment, it could shatter him like a  _ Reducto.  _ Until he was this fine and grainy mist, a little horizon over London, with nowhere else for him to run to if his haunts came to find him. And find him, one did — there were footsteps coming behind him, much lighter than his father’s and reminiscent of his own. But there was one thing that made them different, and it was enough to turn him around. There was this gravity to the footfalls that would only come if you conquered Death, and it was that echo and its assurance that spurred him to look over.

Where to the left of his shoulder and near the edge of where he would be, donned in a vest that brought him out and with a necktie made of green, Harry carried some butterbeers and there were knots to his being. Having been coiled there by his hands when he ran them through the evening, whether as a tic or as a habit that he couldn’t shake off since it happened — who's to say but not he when it came to his own and his lighter. Which he was still flicking, but now quieter and barely flourishing it with his thumb. Until he stopped when right beside him, he felt a finger and a thumb roaming the silk of his charade and nearly parting him from the charm. Like this really was a blanket or a cloak he had thrown on, shifting slightly at Harry’s touch but not any more unless he wanted it — unless Theodore wanted him to see him and no matter what, Harry would be fine with it.

Because he was like that — no-nonsense — and that was something to be appreciated. It was a breath of honesty and something rarer as Theodore pocketed his own lighter, taking turns staring at London and at the man he had beside him. And at the butterbeers in Harry’s hands, knowing that one of them would be his. And at the scrawl within his glance before Harry looked on and towards the horizon, casually slouched with all he was and at ease within the moment. And there was nothing to betray this when he leveled with Theodore Nott.

“Enjoying the view?”

He didn’t answer, playing invisible although he was seen. But he took the words and nodded about, noting that the city looked even better when he had company to share it with. That there was this clarity and vividness that lured him out from his own thoughts, helping him forget whatever he wanted. Or at least, numb what he couldn’t. When he stole a glance and then another and then stared because he needed this. But still, his gaze would always wander and he would catch the nightlife in Harry’s eyes. How there was nothing, but just the present and perhaps, the future if he stared a while.

And although he couldn’t see himself or see the man the other loved, he didn’t need to for him to know that —  _ that Harry had come here so he wouldn’t be alone; so he wouldn’t be lost with his own demons and with a madness borne from the sea, from treading in his own past and finding a reason to sink or be.  _

“Fancy a bottle?”

Theodore took one and perhaps to everyone else, Harry was crazy. Clinking and toasting to the thin air around him, chuckling at nothing while there was a fondness to his person. And when he wrapped a soft arm and seemed to curl into —  _ into something  _ — you couldn’t deny the tenderness that seemed to radiate from his being. Or how his back was hunched over, folding lightly over itself as one would while content or while around what made them happy. And it was infectious if he could speak, if he could saunter it with his own tongue, as he leaned into Harry’s shoulder and felt his fingers come to meet him. Where the only thing Harry did was peel the charm from Theodore’s hand, inching it higher up his wrist so he could hold him and so he could see it.

See the lacing of their fingers and how knitted they were together, see the proof that this was anything but a lie within his head, and see that no matter what would happen or if the world came against him — Harry would be here and he’d be the first one to believe in him. Having experienced it for himself, both as a liar and the honest, and how it felt to know that there was someone that would be there for you — through thick or thin. And if Harry could offer that and if Theodore could accept, the answer was in this hold as they curled around the other. Sipping mouthfuls of butterbeer and wading into the present, thrice seen and unseen and unbothered while together. 

He knew that later, they would talk about this and that Harry would listen to his ramblings, and that he would cut-in before too long so he could remind Theodore to breathe. That he could take it easy or take it slow or take it fast if he wanted so, that he could say this and do that at his own pace if he wanted to — if he was ready or if he wasn’t or if he needed a distraction. And if he chose to do the latter, Harry would hold him like the world. Using his arms as golden lacquer and sealing the cracks within his soul, or just wandering a few fingers and catching Theodore in his holes. In his scars, long-forgotten and scattered throughout his body. So that if one of them overflowed, the other could catch him with his being and know that the other would do the same if he was spilling on top of him.

And just the thought of that had him steady as he breathed into Harry: one take in, one take out, one sip here, one about… — all but numb when he thrived here, when he leaned into his partner. With a kiss towards his forehead, Harry pruned what had bothered him.

**Author's Note:**

> [ Tumblr](https://joeys-piano.tumblr.com/) |[ Twitter](https://twitter.com/joey_wingster)
> 
> **Post-Writing Thoughts** → Originally, I intended to write a silly and flirtatious fic. Where Theo and Harry are at a Ministry Gala, and Theo ducked out to catch some fresh air and Harry’s coming over with some drinks. That was my initial conception before I began writing this fic. And while some of those details have made it through to the final edit, a lot of things went out the window and were incorporated into this version. Especially the higher word count because I initially wanted 420 ( _ for the weed joke because NottPott _ ).
> 
> Definitely, what steered this work into the version you’ve just finished is the opening paragraph where I’m dissecting what decadence means to Theo. Because I’m assuming he’s a quiet guy and someone who reads a lot; and as someone who is both, I channeled a bit of myself while I was refining his voice. And I think he likes to use abstract constructs the arms and legs of a word to describe what he’s feeling and what he’s going through at any moment — throwing references for intensity and as markers for where he is. I’ve had to crack the dictionary so many times and someone with English as his second proficient language, writing this intricately was really hard for me. I did my best to make it understandable and for y’all to fill the holes in. Whether I succeeded in that, let me know so we can have a discussion.
> 
> It was real refreshing to write some angst when I’ve spent most of 2021 writing soft and happy content. While writing this, I got an idea for a new AU involving  _ Master of Death  _ Harry and how Theo is involved with it. And a little bit of that concept trickled into this fic, what with Harry being able to find him and  _ see  _ Theo although he’s invisible. So I can say that in one way or another, this won’t be the last you’ll see me writing for them!


End file.
